system,” said Dr. Lawler.“For example, in some cases, the personalities remain in the host body awareness, ready to step in at any time. In other cases, the personalities can be independent and leave for periods of time. However, even in these cases, they hover somewhere around the awareness and can return if the situation requires.”
“Sounds crowded.”
“It certainly can be if the number of personalities is large. In fact, the larger the number, the more difficult the condition is to manage and the more it impacts daily life for a variety of reasons. One being the anxiety and stress this condition places on the individual, and the other, more critical one being that the personalities represent a specific aspect of the self and do not necessarily have the same moral compass as an integrated person. These are some of the many reasons why the treatment goal is always integration.”
Inside my head, the Committee sat together on the couch, listening with interest. Usually only Ruffles attended lectures with me.
“Can someone with DID lead a normal life?” asked my neighbor.
“Absolutely. In fact, there are many people with dissociative disorders holding highly responsible jobs, contributing to society in a variety of professions—the arts, and public service, and so forth—appearing to function normally to coworkers, neighbors, and others with whom they interact daily.”
I felt like I did when a random memory of one of those conversations between my mother and my aunts happened across my adult mind. The confusion finally disappeared and I understood everything.
“Human beings are very complicated. The person next to you is weirder than you can possibly imagine,” Dr. Lawler said with a mischievous smile.The person sitting next to me laughed along with the rest of the class. I laughed too, but not for the same reason. The guy who asked the question had no idea whom he was sitting next to.
While things were wrapping up, I read Dr. Lawler’s bio on the handout. He was a doctor of psychology with postdoc analytic training instead of the formal medical training most psychoanalysts had. He said one of the keys to his work was that he did not categorize his patients; rather, he treated the uniqueness of the individual.
A few days later, I told Sarah about the lecture, and then I forgot about Dr. Lawler. After I finished university and had been working as a waitress for three years, Sarah offered me a choice: Enter into treatment with Dr. Lawler, or find a way to finance my life in New York City without help from her, my mother, or the emergency credit card. I didn’t really want to see a shrink, but
Betty Jane refused to give up the financial aid, so I agreed. That was five years ago. Since that time, I’ve often wondered if Sarah would have held fast to her terms if she’d known it was Betty Jane who made the choice to enter treatment. Betty Jane reasoned that dealing with a quack was much easier than going without.
For five years, Dr. Lawler—or Milton, as I called him—had met with me every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon at four o’clock for fifty minutes. I’d found that Thursdays were usually the better day to spring the tricky stuff on Milton. Lucky for me, I’d lost my job on a Wednesday.
I shifted in my chair as I strained to hear the soft shutting of the other door. Milton’s office was set up so that the just-treated were ushered out a different exit, through a hallway, and released a couple of doors down from the office entrance.This maintained anonymity.
I had arrived earlier than usual because somehow I thought waiting in Milton’s waiting room would quell the anxiety I felt over how he would respond to the news that I’d lost my job and was considering voice-over training. Waiting only made it worse.
I heard the departure door whine through the wall and said a silent thanks to the maintenance people in this old building who never got around to fixing the squeak. Milton probably
“Sounds crowded.”
“It certainly can be if the number of personalities is large. In fact, the larger the number, the more difficult the condition is to manage and the more it impacts daily life for a variety of reasons. One being the anxiety and stress this condition places on the individual, and the other, more critical one being that the personalities represent a specific aspect of the self and do not necessarily have the same moral compass as an integrated person. These are some of the many reasons why the treatment goal is always integration.”
Inside my head, the Committee sat together on the couch, listening with interest. Usually only Ruffles attended lectures with me.
“Can someone with DID lead a normal life?” asked my neighbor.
“Absolutely. In fact, there are many people with dissociative disorders holding highly responsible jobs, contributing to society in a variety of professions—the arts, and public service, and so forth—appearing to function normally to coworkers, neighbors, and others with whom they interact daily.”
I felt like I did when a random memory of one of those conversations between my mother and my aunts happened across my adult mind. The confusion finally disappeared and I understood everything.
“Human beings are very complicated. The person next to you is weirder than you can possibly imagine,” Dr. Lawler said with a mischievous smile.The person sitting next to me laughed along with the rest of the class. I laughed too, but not for the same reason. The guy who asked the question had no idea whom he was sitting next to.
While things were wrapping up, I read Dr. Lawler’s bio on the handout. He was a doctor of psychology with postdoc analytic training instead of the formal medical training most psychoanalysts had. He said one of the keys to his work was that he did not categorize his patients; rather, he treated the uniqueness of the individual.
A few days later, I told Sarah about the lecture, and then I forgot about Dr. Lawler. After I finished university and had been working as a waitress for three years, Sarah offered me a choice: Enter into treatment with Dr. Lawler, or find a way to finance my life in New York City without help from her, my mother, or the emergency credit card. I didn’t really want to see a shrink, but
Betty Jane refused to give up the financial aid, so I agreed. That was five years ago. Since that time, I’ve often wondered if Sarah would have held fast to her terms if she’d known it was Betty Jane who made the choice to enter treatment. Betty Jane reasoned that dealing with a quack was much easier than going without.
For five years, Dr. Lawler—or Milton, as I called him—had met with me every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon at four o’clock for fifty minutes. I’d found that Thursdays were usually the better day to spring the tricky stuff on Milton. Lucky for me, I’d lost my job on a Wednesday.
I shifted in my chair as I strained to hear the soft shutting of the other door. Milton’s office was set up so that the just-treated were ushered out a different exit, through a hallway, and released a couple of doors down from the office entrance.This maintained anonymity.
I had arrived earlier than usual because somehow I thought waiting in Milton’s waiting room would quell the anxiety I felt over how he would respond to the news that I’d lost my job and was considering voice-over training. Waiting only made it worse.
I heard the departure door whine through the wall and said a silent thanks to the maintenance people in this old building who never got around to fixing the squeak. Milton probably
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